Absence in Humanity
by Suklaamousse
Summary: CDI Wilson thought she'd be ready for anything. But a mysterious videotape and the death of the Faheys showed her horrors she never thought she would see. The blood red eyes will haunt her forever. Oneshot. Mugglepow. Drama, humor, horror, angst.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warning: *If you are sensitive to blood, death, torture, bodily fluids and the likes, don't read anything between these marks* *except this warning* *Ha, got you*

Set between the Order of the Phoenix and the Half-Blood Prince. Angst, horror, twisted humour. Oneshot.

**Absence in Humanity **

**Summer of 1996**

Criminal Detective Inspector Heather Wilson shakily poured herself a large mug of steaming, strong coffee, her unattended fingers roughly squeezing the brightly coloured mug. Hands trembling, she almost spilled the mug as she placed it on the permanently stained worktop. A half eaten sandwich lay forgotten next to the mug.

A wavy strand of dark blond hair fell free from her eternally messy bun, swaying irritably in front of her glazed hazel eyes. She lifted up a red case file, holding it open on her shaky left hand—a hand that was still lacking a wedding ring, to her mother's endless annoyance. This was an annoyance that said mother restlessly ranted about to her daughter's innocent thirty year old ears.

Granted, she had celebrated her thirtieth birthday for the sixth time last month—not that she was counting—but Heather wasn't much of a girly-girl, never mind decent wife material. She had never felt any need for a man to be a part of her life and she certainly didn't want a loud, runny nosed, irritating kid dashing around, asking dim-witted questions and generally making a mess in her humble, not to mention untidy, one bedroom apartment.

Heather enjoyed being a Criminal Detective and single, thank you very much. She was quite content with her career as a CDI and being able to spend her free time any way she liked, partying with her friends and… Oh who was she kidding? She was a workaholic who still hadn't made Criminal Detective Chief Inspector, and work being her life, 'a friend' tended to be a foreign concept to her. Some days she felt like a complete failure.

But being a Criminal Detective had shown Heather the cruelty humans were capable of. All romantic notions of fairytale love had long ago abandoned her, the never-ending stream of domestic violence, brutal rapes, and murders pretty much destroying her trust in humanity. It had made her a sarcastic pessimist afraid of human contact. Given that she had witnessed such monsters walking out of prison as Mary Bell and observed Jeremy Bamber's trial, who could blame her? The Hungerford massacre in 1987 and The Dunblane massacre just a few months ago still gave her nightmares. How a person could smile so sincerely one moment and go on a killing rampage the next was beyond her. Heather didn't understand how a human being could keep on living like nothing had happened after taking someone's life. The thought scared her.

Today had yet again shown her why she lived alone. And for today, she was happy being a spinster.

Heather absently brushed the wayward lock behind her ear, closing the file—having read none of it—and opting to drink the cooling coffee instead.

It had been a hectic morning shift, progressing into even more chaotic evening sift. It had all begun with Criminal Detective Sergeant Rupert Hicklings, Dicklings to most of them, arriving over an hour late. Apparently his partner, Allan Fahey—a complete arsehole and all around egotistical bigot—had failed to show up to fetch Dicklings from his mother's house. How Dicklings, a plump forty-something year old balding mama's boy with an IQ like that of a leaking rubber boot, had managed to become a Criminal Detective Sergeant she would never fathom. The man was a complete pushover.

Criminal Detective Sergeant Fahey had also failed to show up at the station, or even to answer his phone. CDS Dicklings had managed to borrow a hot pink girl's bicycle, complete with spoke beads, flashy streamers, and a basket filled with semi-dressed Barbie dolls, and, wearing a matching helmet, had found himself standing stupidly in the middle of the busy station after a relatively safe bike ride. Really, a pimple had far more initiative than Dicklings; the man was like a lost puppy without Fahey there to boss him around.

And, before a patrol car could reach Fahey's rather remote and admittedly beautiful country house, a massive explosion had alerted Fahey's nearly deaf, well over ninety year old neighbour to call the fire brigade. Well, the old fart was quite traditional, (more like terribly out-of-date). Hence, he walked swiftly—and by what Heather had witnessed, a week old corpse was far livelier than the old fart in question—to the nearest post office to make said phone call, but managed to forget the address, delaying the help even further.

By the time the fire brigade had arrived, the outer walls had burned to the ground, but somehow the rest of the house was miraculously undamaged. And though there were extensive signs of a powerful explosion indeed taking place _inside_ the house, such as entire sections of walls, pieces of partly melted glass—most likely caused by immense heat—and broken furniture _blown_ all around the vast yard, there was nothing structurally wrong inside the house, or at least, what remained of it. An explosion causes a shock wave that affects _everything_ around it; there is no such thing as a _sentient_ shock wave, now is there. The house looked like it had been peeled open, revealing everything inside for everybody to see, like a twisted dollhouse.

It was strange...a bit too strange.

Even stranger had been the large green, glowing, _moving_ skull with an enormous huge snake coming out of its mouth that had hovered fifty feet above the newly blown up house.

Remembering, Heather gulped down some of the amazing, life saving, revitalizing liquid black gold, also known as coffee, without tasting any of it.

It had been over nine hours since Heather, her partner Criminal Detective Inspector Howard Brighwood, as well as numerous other Inspectors and Officers had investigated the entire house. What they found was both impossible to understand and strangely poetic. Not that Heather was going to tell that particular opinion to anyone. Ever.

They had found numerous small but definitely peculiar burn marks on the inner walls and remaining furniture, and the master bedroom had been filled with various sex toys and lotions, some of which Heather couldn't even begin to fathom. Now, Heather didn't have much of a social life, her sex life being even more depressing, but when one sees a strap-on dildo in all hetero household, it was quite plain even to her, who took it and where. There was even a pedestal facing the bed, however the video camera and thus the tape, were still missing. Who knew Fahey was such a kinky bastard? His second fifth anniversary had been on Friday; fortunately, the kids were still at Fahey's mother's house.

But the weird burn marks—those truly freaked her out. They carried a resemblance to what a small gas torch or a lighter could produce when kept close to a smooth surface, if one could forget about the bizarre colours of said burn marks, which ranged from the usual black and various shades of greys to more abnormal colours—bright red, emerald green, sky blue, dark purple, one that smelled faintly of marshmallows.

One burn mark even seemed to change colours every few seconds, but that couldn't be possible. Strange, indeed.

Heather didn't much like anything too strange to understand, let alone something impossible. She had never believed in a god, any of them. Funny notions of destiny or any higher, _divine_ power were irrational; she was a big believer of logic.

The Laws of Physics stated that a shock wave travelled in every direction; it simply _did not_ decide to travel through the house and then tear the walls away. That was simply not possible. And why didn't the fire spread everywhere? Why just the outer walls? There were loads of flammable material practically attached to the walls, but none of those were at all damaged.

And, that was nothing compared to what else they found.

Though Heather had worked alongside Allen Fahey for the past twelve years—she had even been to his second wedding five years ago—she couldn't say by any stretch of an overly active imagination that she liked the man. She barely tolerated him, and that was only because he was a good DS. And, he took Dicklings away from the rest of them, so that was a plus. Heather would miss him like one missed a sore tooth or a broken bone.

Fahey's less than pleasant personality was understandable to a certain degree, considering the man's first wife had died giving birth to their second child, a stillborn son, over eight years ago and Allen's first born daughter, Amelia, had gone missing less than two years later. Chances of survival for a four year old were slim to none. Allen had begun to change after his first wife died, but after the girl disappeared, he became cold and distant, barely tolerating anyone but Dicklings. Both the late wife and the missing daughter were taboos, which is perhaps why Fahey tolerated Dicklings, he being too rookie to know about Allen's past.

Heather understood how life changing losses such as those must hurt, really she did. She had even been genuinely happy for Fahey when he had remarried and had no less than four children with his new wife in the past five years. Well, thanks to religion, that's what you got with a bloated male ego and no protection. Though, she did feel sorry for the young wife; the diaper tower must have been monumental.

It was strange. When they first entered the newly-destroyed house, a horrible scream had been heard and no matter how hard they searched, they couldn't find the source. They had looked everywhere: the first and second floor, the scorching attic, the chilly basement, the children's playhouse, the wobbly barn, and even the doghouse. It sounded like a man who had been screaming for days in extreme agony, but the entire house had been empty. Even tracking dogs hadn't found anything. The scream had gone on and on. It had sounded as if the walls themselves were crying in agony.

*And then, after over four hours of investigation, suddenly out of nowhere, two bodies had appeared in the middle of the crowded living room. One of the bodies, the female, had been immediately identified as Estelle Fahey, Allen Fahey's young wife. She was dead, and had been that way for the past two days at least, if the bloating caused by bacteria, and the worms and insects that had been crawling around and in her were anything to go by. But the other body, the one that kept screaming like it was being skinned, had been harder to recognize.

It was worst than a horror movie.

For one, the other body had indeed been skinned alive; the eyes had been dug out, the left one still swaying above what use to be an ear, and he had looked to be crucified on the floor—but, technically, one would need both legs to be properly crucified. Apparently, who ever had nailed him on the floor and cut of his legs had improvised and punched the third nail trough his male member. CDI Brightwood, along with at least six other officers, had vomited violently at the sight of it.

And the man had kept screaming.

The entire living room floor had been covered in blood. It had covered everything: the walls, the carpets, the ceiling—the entire floor was slippery with it. And reek had been unbelievable; the coppery smell of fresh and dried blood, salty urine, the sweet smell of rotting flesh, and the stinging stench of vomit. There had even been excrement and various body parts scattered all over the place.

The amount of blood had been absurd. Heather knew a human body has roughly five litres of blood, but this room was soaked with it. And the man kept bleeding; he should have died a long time ago. The dogs went crazy, pulling the handlers' trough the room, most of whom ended falling on the slippery, blood soaked floor. *

Heather couldn't take it anymore and, vomit bursting through her fingers. Before she had reached the front entrance, her leg had caught onto something and she had tripped flat on her face still vomiting and screaming in terror, which had resulted in a one-of-a-kind croaking shriek.

And now, two hours later, she was fresh out of the shower, wearing a clean set of clothes and grabbing something to eat, and trying to gather enough courage to look at a video tape. The thing that had tripped her during her hasty exit had been the missing video camera; there was a good chance that the tape contained information that would tell them how the Fahey's had died.

Allen had died the very same moment the first paramedic had touched him; though, it had taken over an hour for the coroner to be sure it was Allen. The man was missing most of his face, which made the job somewhat challenging.

"Are you ready, Heather?"

"Heather?" Howard's hushed voice was accompanied by a hand on her shoulder, making her jump in fright; it would be a while yet before the jumpiness would subside, if ever.

"I'm fine, Howard," she said breathlessly, obviously still lost in her thoughts. She swallowed the remainder of her lukewarm coffee, breathing deeply "Let's just get it over with." She meant to sound strong, she really did, but it came out sounding about as enthusiastic as one would be while killing a litter of adorable, helpless kittens—psychopaths and the like excluded.

They walked to the video room in complete silence. Somehow it seemed inappropriate to talk; the station had never been so quiet.

By the time they reached their destination, the large form of Criminal Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Jones and four other CDI's were already seated. "Howard, Heather, how are you two holding up?" CDCI Jones asked, while handling out a preliminary coroner's report.

"We are as fine as can be expected, Sir." Heather answered for the both of them, managing to sound more like a professional than earlier.

CDCI Jones nodded. "We were just about to begin. If the two of you would sit over here," he said, pointing to the two empty seats closest to the television set, right next to his own seat. "You can begin when you are ready Dr. Hughes"

A vertically challenged, middle-aged woman with short, spiky red hair pushed her equally red, steel framed glasses higher and cleared her throat. "I first examined Estelle Fahey's body, and after the primary autopsy, I have been unable to find an explanation for her sudden death. Her body shows no evidence of physical injury and the initial blood tests have all came back clean. It seems like her heart just simply stopped beating, without any apparent reason for doing so."

Disbelieving murmurs reached Dr. Grace Hughes ears and she raised her already audible voice, glaring icily over her steal framed glasses. "However, I will have more to tell you after the full autopsy."

All of those who knew Dr. Grace Hughes or had heard about her fearsome reputation knew that no-one spoke while she talked, and no-one disagreed with what she said_. No-one_. If you did, then you better find another Doctor. In a town as small as this, Dr. Grace Hughes was the best and only option.

"Now, Allen Fahey on the other hand… Well let's just say—as anyone who has seen the corpse should be able to tell—the man wasn't supposed to be_ alive_. It is still unclear in which order the damage was done to him, but it seems that his legs were severed _before_ and the skin was removed _after_ he was nailed to the floor." Dr. Grace Hughes wasn't one to colour things up, even though her audience was starting to turn into shades of green formerly found only in the flourishing rainforests.

"Any one of these injuries should have killed him. He was also, ironically, missing seven fingers, seven teeth from his upper jaw, seven ribs, seven vertebrae—though there weren't any exit wounds on his back where the bones could have been removed, but I think all of us know that no man can walk with only a half a spine." Dr. Grace Hughes was known to carry a grudge like no-other; with the late DS Fahey being on the top of her rather lengthy Black List, she wasn't about to let a minor detail such as death hamper her bitterness. "Oh, and Fahey's testicles were removed and fed to him, along with seven of his toes"

"Ah, thank you Dr. Hughes, for this… detailed report," CDCI Jones said patting his sweaty brow with a hanky, his black, thick moustache twitching noticeably. "Now, does anyone have any questions or notations before we watch the tape?" He sounded as if he was about to be executed and still walked with his head held high—a man resolved to his dreadful destiny.

You had to admire the man. CDCI Jones never had much tolerance for blood or death, yet he was the one making sure everyone else was coping, even though he would most likely hit the floor, unconscious, at the first sign of blood.

But that is why he was the CDCI; he always took care of the others—often more than himself.

CDCI Jones looked at the ashen faces of his co-workers, finding badly hidden nervousness and lingering evidence of recent trauma, but to his satisfaction no-one tried to avoid what was to come.

"No? Well, I'll just put the tape in…" CDCI Jones' rather wide back blocked the TV for a moment and he returned to the table holding a remote control and wiped his glistering forehead with a trembling hand. "I'll just press play.. And here we go."

"_Do you love this, my _little_ dog? Do you enjoy me fucking you? _Hard_ in the ass? _Say_ you love this, my pathetic dog, say you_ love_ this or I will make you suffer!"_

"_I love this Mistress. I love this Mistress! Please Mistress, fuck me harder Mistress! Make me ble…" _

"Oh my."

There was just something fundamentally wrong seeing one of your colleagues wearing a collar and a leash, kneeling in all fours, getting fucked by his young and thus far innocent looking wife, wearing a strap-on and all black dominatrix outfit. Along the lines of more important details, the 'act' was filmed on Friday, on Allen's second fifth anniversary with his new wife at roughly 10.05 PM.

"Maybe we should just wind forwards for a while… respecting privacy and all that…" CDCI Jones coughed uncomfortably while the rest shifted in their seats trying very hard not to look at one another.

After the Fahey's were done, the display showing a runtime 23 minutes 27 seconds, they saw Allen getting up and stopping the recording. The TV went black, but the tape kept playing.

A while later red letters appeared on the screen, showing: Saturday, 2.34 a.m., runtime of 25.46. The screen was still black, but the sound of someone's steady pace proved that the camera was being moved. Slowly, a dim light appeared on the top of the screen, revealing a set of stairs leading downwards. The lens was still pointing at the floor, but the one carrying the camera wore expensive looking black leather boots that were peeking out from underneath what could have been a long, black trench coat. The material was hovering eerily around the person's boots, like a thick veil of liquid smoke or a solid layer of black water, floating independently as if a non-existing wind were moving it.

The person was definitely male, if the boot size was anything to go by.

The man stepped in a large open space, where several individuals were laughing and taunting two petrified figures that were huddled in the furthest corner.

"_My Lord, the muggles are ready," _said a stocky little figure in a wheezy and adoring feminine voice. The figure was wearing a long black cloak and white mask and lurked behind its lord, giggling breathlessly.

"_Very good, Alecto." _The man holding the camera—the Lord—answered degradingly, in a cold, high-pitched tone. "_Belatrixss, come here and hold thiss,"_ he demanded, hissing like an angry snake. The man gave Heather the creeps; everything he said sounded wrong.

The woman, Bellatrix, took the camera and held it according to her Lord's wishes, the lens facing the Faheys. If anyone had asked, Heather would have said that this Bellatrix character had never seen a camera before, let alone held one.

The picture straightened up. They were gathered in the living room, where several black cloaked individuals wearing white masks were pointing what looked like short, smooth sticks at the trembling and sobbing Allen and Estelle Fahey.

All of a sudden, Heather realized something. These people had masks made out of human skulls covering their faces! What _monsters_! And the so-called Lord! _He_ was a true monster! He had skin as pale as bone stretched too thinly over his tall, skeletal figure, two blood red, unforgiving eyes, a lipless mouth, sharp teeth, and two vertical slits mimicking a grotesque nose. And, they were all looking at him as if he were God himself.

"_We are all about to witnesss why muggless, ssuch ass thesse two worthlesss parasitess sshould never be allowed to live. Why a wizard sshould _never_ have to ssuffer the company of the lowly muggless. Why a wizard sshould never be raissed by the likess of _them_. Why a wizard sshould never lower them ass to get involved with an inferior muggle." _His voice was barely above a whisper but Heather knew she wasn't the only one listening to the man's every word, holding her breath as if it would be rude even to breathe while he spoke.

Heather had never heard anyone speak with such a passion, such a burning conviction. If what the man was saying didn't sound so frighteningly close to the late Nazi leader, and if the words themselves weren't promising pain to these so-called muggles, Heather probably would have agreed with him, followed his every word. She couldn't help but to admire him, his undeniable power, and she hated herself for it.

It was in the way he spoke, the way he held himself: powerful, graceful, like a god, and merciless, like the devil. She understood why these people were lowering themselves at his feet, why they were eager, _desperate,_ to please him. Even if he looked like a monster, even if he spoke of inferiority, she couldn't help but to believe every word the Lord said as to be the truth.

The truth. At least, the truth to these masked characters in their situation, whatever that was. One man's terrorist was another man's freedom fighter. It's just a matter of an opinion. But even if Heather admired the man, his power, his conviction, she would do her very best to arrest this cruel monster for the murders he had most assuredly committed.

For, it was the right thing to do.

The Lord held a bonelike stick in his unnaturally long-fingered, spidery hand, pointing it towards the Faheys. They were lifted up like a weightless pair of puppets! The Faheys were dangling upside-down by one ankle in the middle of the living room, with nothing to support them! Had the Lord lifted them simply by pointing a stick at them? What was that power? Were they truly wizards as the Lord had referred? Were they really using…wands and magic? It was preposterous!

The Lord turned slowly and started walking towards the living room entrance, guiding the airborne Faheys down the stairs that led to the basement. Bellatrix was the first to follow, the others not far behind. The air was heady with excitement and dread.

The small group paused at the bottom of the stairs, all looking at their Lord expectantly. Estelle Fahey was stiff with fear, barely moving as silent tears ran down her pale forehead. Next to her, Allen was screaming in anger or terror; as to which one it actually was, Heather wasn't sure.

"_Sspeak only when sspoken to, muggle." _The Lord spat the words like poison. _"Ssilencio!"_

Allen's mouth was still moving, but no further sound came out. It was as though his voice had suddenly ceased functioning.

These wizards held such an unimaginable power, seemingly absolute control; how could someone like her stand up against these people and this magnificent, unfathomable power...this supremacy?

Heather touched the smooth, cool surface of her Sig Sauer. It used to calm her down, knowing she had something to protect herself with, but now it felt like a useless lump of metal. She felt so weak, so small and insignificant—powerless.

Powerless like Allen and Estelle had been, like they were right now, before her very eyes, and she could do nothing to prevent their deaths from happening. They had already happened. It was suffocating to watch her colleagues' last moments on earth, knowing what would happen. Allen's eyes still held hope, such a foolish hope. No-one would come to save them; no-one would be able to prevent their sufferings.

They would die alone, surrounded by skull-faced strangers, pitifully fighting for their existence, their right to live, and no-one would hear their screams of terror and agony, their useless begging. No-one who cared, at least.

It was Heather's worst fear.

The Dark Lord dropped the Faheys cruelly on the cold stone floor, an unseen power forcing them to kneel before him. Then he swept his wand in a wide arc, moving the large, heavy-looking shelves away from the farthest wall to reveal a low, thick metal door with several bulky locks.

"_Now it iss time for you to make a choice, Allen Fahey," _the Lord began, speaking slowly, like to a dim-witted child. _"A ssimple nod will do, but the choice iss yourss. Are you with me sso far, muggle?"_ Allen jerkily nodded, looking at the Dark Lords boots. "_Remember muggle, Bellatrix iss recording everything for all your little friends to ssee."_

Allen nervously glanced towards the camera, only to have his head painfully twisted around by an unseen force. _"None of that, muggle. Don't make thiss harder on yoursself or your _lovely_ young wife." _

"_You have a choice muggle,"_ the Dark Lord said, his voice lisping like a serpent. _"I will open thiss door and everyone will ssee your darkesst ssecretss, or you will kill your wife. After that, everything will be over,"_ the Dark Lord whispered, placing a dagger in front of Allen with a flourish._ "The choice iss yourss, muggle." _

Estelle turned to look at her husband, eyes pleading for him to spare her, naïvely thinking they would survive this.

Allen slowly reached for the dagger with a trembling hand. _"I'm sorry, Estelle, so sorry."_

A malicious smirk spread across the Dark Lord's lipless mouth, gleefully observing Estelle's hopeless begging as Allen slowly moved the dagger closer to his unmoving, sobbing wife.

"_Allen please, don't do it! Please!"_

"_I have to, Estelle. I'm so sorry. Please understand; it's better this way,"_ Allen said, his cold, unfeeling eyes staring at the hysteric Estelle.

"_Allen, please don't do this!"_

Allen plunged the dagger deep into his wife's throat, twisting the blade so that the wound wouldn't close. It was at that moment that Heather realised Allen was insane.

The Dark Lords malevolent laughter filled the cool basement as Allen triumphantly pulled the dagger out of Estelle's throat, her terrified, betrayed eyes staring straight ahead.

But there was no blood, no gaping wound; there was not a single scratch on Estelle.

Heather looked at the dagger still in Allen's hand. He was holding the handle, but the dagger didn't have a blade; it had just been an illusion. _"No!"_ Allen screamed, jumping towards Estelle, his hands outstretched, ready to strangle her.

Allen was violently thrown back, his knees painfully connecting with the stone floor. _"You promised! You promised that if I kill her, you would let me go, this would be over! You promised, you ugly son of a bitch!" _Spit was flying out of Allen's mouth as he screamed in rage, mad eyes challenging the Dark Lord, insanity clouding his common sense.

Estelle's betrayed sniffles grew louder with every word Allen spoke, her sorrow overpowering her fear.

"_You are nothing but a coward and a fool," _the Dark Lord said gleefully, enjoying Estelle's pain far too much to care about Allen's mad rage, though it too seemed to amuse him greatly. _"I ssaid everything would be over, but I certainly didn't mean we would let you go, you foolissh muggle. Now, let'ss ssee what ssecrets thiss muggle hidess behind thiss door."_

The Dark Lord pointed his bone white wand towards the metal door, the large locks opening by themselves, clanging loudly as they hit the stone floor one by one.

There was a narrow stone stairway leading deep underground. The Dark Lord smiled heartlessly at Estelle _"And you thought sshe dissappeared. Died. You felt ssorry for your hussband, pitied him, comforted him. For yearss. And all thiss time, sshe wass right here, under your living room floor, all alone, alwayss hungry and you didn't hear her sscreamss."_

Estelle gazed at him, her teary, deceived eyes filled with questions and dawning comprehension. _"No,"_ she whispered, too quietly for all but the most attentive of humans to hear, _"no, no, no."_

"_Oh yess, dear Esstelle, you are in love with a monsster, a killer. A torturer."_ The Dark Lord caressed Estelle's pale cheek with his wand, forcing her to hear his every word._ "You trussted him, with your happinesss, with your children'ss happinesss. You were proud of him, hiss achievementss, hiss wealth, hiss intelligence. A man of god, an important part of community, resspected, admired." _She had stopped crying, disgust filling her._ "Hated. Love makess you blind, doessn't it?" _

The Dark Lord turned towards the stone stairs, casually whipping his white wand behind him, silencing and lifting the shaking Estelle and madly wriggling Allen in the air. They descended the steep stairs, Bellatrix following the airborne Faheys, and the rest following her. The air grew colder with every step they took.

The Dark Lord awaited them at the bottom of the stairs in a small, pitch black room. Despite the darkness Heather could see his glowing red eyes, looking past the camera into the darkness.

"_Ssee what muggless do to uss given the opportunity. What they do to their own flessh and blood. Ssee what monsterss they are," _the Dark Lord whispered, barely loud enough for Heather to hear, like he was being cautious.

"_Amycus, conjure some candles for us"_

As the Dark Lord lit the candles one by one, Heather could make out the space they were standing in: Soil walls and floor were supported by thick, old boards; the bottom of the house served as a ceiling, and tree roots were pushing through the walls. An old rickety chair was pushed against a wall, a battered metal bucket and a molten mattress beside it.

Something moved on the mattress. Heather gasped. She could see a pair of unnaturally black eyes staring calmly into the Dark Lords red ones. It was a prison. A child was huddled on the mattress.

Someone in the video room whispered in horror, "Amelia."

Dark eyes were hidden behind dirty black hair, sunken cheeks were covered with ugly scars; the child's skin was so pale that Heather thought the girl had never seen the sun. Trembling bony hands were holding up a filthy rag that was covering her scantily dressed, painfully-thin body; her skeletal feet were nothing but bones and bleeding tissue. Her body was small enough to be that of a five year old.

It couldn't be Amelia; she would have turned ten last winter. It couldn't be her. It couldn't! But Heather recognised her eyes, the same beautiful almond shape as her mother's had been. Amelia's eyes had always been dark, but now they were black—completely and utterly black.

A heavy shackle was tied to her skinless ankle, preventing the girl from escaping. Heather thought the girl wasn't able to crawl, let alone get away from her horrid prison.

The girl didn't cry or tremble when the Dark Lord kneeled in front of her, his skeletal fingers slowly reaching for her bruised chin, gently touching her scarred skin. Blood red eyes stared steadily into her black ones. The Devil himself was before her, and yet she didn't cry. For a while Heather thought the girl was too scared to cry, but looking at her black eyes, old beyond her years, she wasn't sure if the girl knew how to—maybe she didn't have any tears left.

By all means, the girl should have been dead years ago. It was like something unnatural was keeping her alive against her will.

"_Hello child," _the Dark Lord said softly, _"I am here to take you away, to free you."_

Amelia reached a bony, twisted hand to touch the Dark Lord's thin, pale cheek, mimicking him. She was curious. Why wasn't she afraid? She was an abused, tortured child, and here she was curiously touching the red eyed demon before her.

"_Free me. Take me away. End the pain." _She spoke in a soft, colourless voice. _"Like mommy."_

She was so young in many ways—it was a miracle she could speak at all—but at the same time so old.

No child should have seen the horrors she had, no child should have lived through what she had; no child should wish for death. Did she even know what death meant?

Yet there she was.

"_If you want me to."_

"_Mommy says there is no pain in death. No hunger. No coldness. Mommy says he won't be there," _Amelia said, looking at Allen.

"_You are the same as me," _she stated, her black eyes sweeping around the room_ "All of you. Bright colours." _Her black eyes turned back to the Dark Lord, _"You are the brightest, the strongest,"_ and back where Allen, her father, lay kneeling on the floor. "_Not like him. He has no shine, no colour."_

"_He iss what we call a muggle, a non-magic beasst," _the Dark Lord said.

"_I know. Mommy told me."_

Heather thought the child was mad, thinking her dead mother was speaking to her, but the Dark Lord seemed to understand her, like it was somehow possible, like it was the truth. But it couldn't be.

Suddenly the girl stood up unnaturally fast, even for a healthy person, extending her thin arms towards the Dark Lord.

"_Bellatrix."_ The Dark Lord spoke to the woman holding the camera as he too stood up. _"You know what to do with the muggless"_

The camera turned to face the Faheys and Heather knew she wouldn't, _couldn't_ ever feel sorry for Allen Fahey. Maybe she, too, was a monster for accepting that such a fate what was to come as a reasonable, justified punishment.

Laughter filled the small room as a green bright light flashed.

And then the tape ended.

-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-End-

-Any kind of feedback would be greatly appreciated. There is no such thing as a too short review. One word would be enough, and it only takes a second- And I heard it's 'in' to review.

-Thank You-


End file.
